Cold
by Queen Bookworm the First
Summary: QLFC Round 8


**Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition: Round 8**

Team: Wimbourne Wasps

Position: Beater 2

**Prompt: **Six of Swords — Upright: Transition, Leaving Behind, Moving On, Reversed: Emotional Baggage, Unresolved Issues, Resisting Transition

**Optional Prompts:**

9\. [season] Winter

11\. [restriction] No Gryffindors and Slytherins

15\. [object] Flask

**AN:** It's believed that Merope never attended Hogwarts, so she wouldn't be a Slytherin.

* * *

Merope stood in the tub, fingers clenched around her ragged grey dress. Water fell from the showerhead in soft pit-pats, sprinkling over her feet. She lifted her dress over her head and tossed it on the tiled floor. Her gaze swept over the sink, where two toothbrushes lay sprawled over the counter.

(And she could see him there, could see his lips curving around his toothbrush, could see his dark grey eyes lighting up, could _see_ him loving her.)

Merope blinked and shook her head. She let out a shuddering breath before stepping under the water. The water slithered down her back in icy streaks, soaking her tangled brown hair. _Too cold_, she thought with a quiver. She hadn't cared before—but that was when she had him to warm her up.

She grabbed a bar of soap. _Here,_ she thought as she rubbed the soap over her cheek, _here is where he last kissed me. _It felt wrong to wash it away. Merope swept the soap over the swell of her stomach, tears brimming in her eyes. _Here is what he left me. _Then she pressed a small hand to her chest, feeling the dull thuds of her heartbeat. _Here is what he broke._ The cold of the water seeped through her skin, invading her bones, leaving her numb.

Later that evening, as she stood shivering on the impossibly small balcony of the flat she had shared with him, snowflakes speckling her wet hair, Merope realized that it wasn't the water or snow that made her feel so cold. It was the fact that the only thing that had brought warmth to her dingy apartment had left.

And it seemed like the world was imitating how she felt.

* * *

Knees pulled up to her chest, Merope sipped her lukewarm tea. Gusts of snow beat at the windows, the wind howling a crude symphony. She looked down at her stomach, gnawing at her lip. "I'm sorry," she whispered, cradling the bump. "I'm sorry it's so cold. I'm sorry that I let him leave."

Merope looked up at the ceiling, tracing the webbed pattern with her gaze. She let her eyes drift shut.

"_You witch," he snarled, eyes dark with fury, spittle flying from his lips. Outside, the first snowfall of the year began. _

"_I only did it because—" _

_Fingers curled into a fist, he towered above her. She shrunk away, pressing her back against the wall. "I don't care why. You _poisoned _me." _

"_But I love—"_

"_You're obsessed with me. You—you—you bloody witch." A choked, crazed laugh escaped his lips. "I can't believe this." Snow drifted onto the balcony, twinkling in the moonlight. _

"_You love me," Merope whispered, barely able to speak over the lump in her throat. She forced herself to meet his eyes and nearly cried when she did. "You love me. We were happy together. You love me."_

"You loved me, didn't you?" Merope murmured, breaking the heavy silence that enveloped the flat.

("Yes, of course I did, of course I loved you," came his voice, soft and soothing, cocooning her in warmth, making the snow go away.)

"I should—I should make you see it. Make you see that we can be happy. We _were_ happy."

("Yes, you should. Come find me, darling, come find me and take me back." He was smiling at her the way he did after a dose of Amortentia—lovesick and intense.)

A phantom warmth surrounded Merope's heart as she stood. She could barely hear the snow falling outside; no, she had better things to do, somewhere to be. She hurried into the bedroom and snaked a spindly arm into the pillowcase. Her fingers fumbled around, searching, searching, until—there it was. She withdrew her hand, grasping a flask.

Shimmering drops of the potion clung to the rim of the flask like tiny pearls. Merope smiled as she uncorked the flask and inhaled. The smell of cedarwood and rain filled her nose, the fumes making her giddy. Her eyes glazed over for a moment as she drank in the scent of him.

"I'll get you back," whispered Merope as she plugged the cork back into the flask. "I love you, and you love me."

* * *

Merope pulled the hood of her threadbare cloak up, bowing her head against the fierce wind. Her breath came out in puffs of white smoke. She walked slowly, planting her feet on the few cobbled stones that weren't covered with ice. If she did slip, she found herself thinking _Let it kill me. Let the fall kill me, and I'll be done with this._But her arms teetered and caught herself, her body's instinct betraying her.

_Will it work? Am I doing the right thing? Last time…_ She bit her lip.

("It'll work. You are doing the right thing. You're fighting for your love. You're being brave, darling, you're being brave," he crooned.)

_Brave. _She was being brave and valiant, fighting for her one true love. Merope steeled her heart and hurried on through Little Hangleton. As she walked down the streets, the streets of her childhood, she felt no sentimentality. She kept her eyes trained on the ground as she passed the crumbling, squalor-ridden shack she had grown up in.

_I'm done with all that. Done with their yells and laughs and stupid faces_, she told herself, remembering the years spent curled on a mat by the fireplace, enduring countless beatings, ears constantly ringing with the sound of scoldings.

But that was her past. Her future was with him—and it would be a good one, Merope promised herself. She would make it good.

The cobblestones turned into a neat path of cement as she continued on her way. When she looked up, her heart began to race, hammering against her chest. Merope swallowed and took in the sight before her.

Riddle Manor stood at the top of the hill with its gleaming windows and numerous turrets. Snow crunched under Merope's feet as she ambled up the hill, huddling into the folds of her cloak. The sky was somewhat clear for once; sunlight illuminated the snow-covered lawn, making it almost blinding to look at. Merope took this as a good sign. _I'll be warm again soon. _

She approached the door and lifted a trembling hand to knock. As she stood on the porch, her petite frame quivering, she slid her hand into her pocket. Her fingers wrapped around the flask. She pulled it out slowly, observing the glittering water. It had an unnatural sheen to it, but she hoped he wouldn't notice.

All she had to do was distract him. All she had to was get a few drops, just a few—

The door opened.

And there he was. The man she loved. The man who loved her.

Tom Riddle.

Merope took in a shuddering breath and met his eyes. She flinched at the evident rage.

"What," Tom ground out from his clenched jaw, "the hell are you doing here?"

Merope tried to smile, but she found her lips unresponsive. "I—I—_Tom._"

"Get out."

"Tom, I—"

"Get. The. Hell. Out."

Merope cradled her stomach. Tears and snot ran down her face. "The baby. What about—what about our baby, Tom?"

He sneered, and all Merope could think was _Oh, he doesn't look handsome when he sneers. Please stop_. "I'm not falling for your tricks again, witch." Tom's voice was dripping with scorn as he looked over her. His eyes darkened at the sight of the flask, and Merope could have sworn he looked scared for a moment. _Don't be scared of me. I love you, and you love me. _

"Please, Tom, I love you, and we were happy—we'll _be_ happy together. You love me, Tom, and I love you, and we're going to have a baby, and we—"

"Come to poison me again, have you?" Tom stepped forward and snatched the flask out of her hand. He eyed it with trepidation before hurling it at the snow. The glass shattered, and Merope screamed.

Her only hope soaked into the snow, staining it a pearly off-white.

Tom's chest heaved with every breath. "Go. Go and _never come back_." He turned and disappeared into the manor, slamming the door behind him.

The salty taste of her tears slipped between her lips. Merope felt herself grow numb again.

"I love you," she whispered to the closed door as snow began to fall again. There was no phantom-Tom to say he loved her; no, all she had was deafening silence and the feeling that it had never been colder.


End file.
